User blog:Martingloamg/20 Years Competition Results
(left) and Knight Academic (right)]] Thank you for all the people who were involved in the 20 Years Competition. Again, the standard was so high, so it was incredibly hard to choose a winner. However in the end we chose JimTheEagle as The Professor of Darkness and Knight Academic as our Professor of Light! Read on to read and admire the winning and highly commended entries... ''The 20th Wodgiss'' by JimTheEagle – Winning story Maple Snicklebark felt nervous. Tonight would be the greatest feast she had ever know and a greater feast than there would ever be for years to come. Already the aunts and uncles from the surrounding villages were arriving, with cousins of all ages in tow. The littlest ones were already making a nuisance of themselves, running pell-mell between her legs as she set the great tables. The menfolk were lazy. They sat around drinking beer and exchanging tales of their fine woodsmanship. The womenfolk, however, laid out their contributions to the feast and began assisting with the other preparations. There were great barrels of wodge-ale to broached and wodgiss sausages to be stuffed for frying. Great legs of hammelhorn were already turning on their spits over blazing fires and large cauldrons of tilder sausage soup were boiling under the watchful of several old matrons The older children busied themselves with putting up the festive decorations. Painted streamers were strung from every tree and bush. Miniature lanterns were lit and hung the rooves of the village huts. Tiny sumpwood globes painted in festive colours hovered around the lanterns, twisting and turning in the warm air. The smell of wodgiss spiced scones wafted from the ovens as the tables began to fill. The Master Carver of the Timberyards took the head of the great table. accompanied by the chiefs of the villages. All the menfolk took the next table, shouting loudly every time their flagons emptied of wodge-ale. The third table was occupied by those womenfolk too old or too important to serve. The final table was taken by the children, most of them much too exited to sit still. An argument over who had won the first game of trockbladder took such a violent turn, two youngsters had to be sent to sit in the huts. When all were seated, the procession of food began to arrive. Dressed in her holiday garb, Maple joined the grown womenfolk as they began parading the food to the tables. First came the tilder sausage soup, steaming hot in small wooden bowls. Then, great steaks cut from the spit roast legs of hammelhorn, glazed in woodbee honey. And piles of hot, greasy wodgiss sausages. Then, when the top three tables had been served, Maple was allowed to join her siblings at the lower table and eat her fill of the delicacies. Her favourite were the wodgiss sausages. Freshly removed from the pan and still sizzling in their hammelhorn grease, Maple couldn't resist eating them by the dozens. Finally, after the main course was complete, came the wodgiss spiced scones, served with baked woodapples and stiff cream. As the evening began to haze through the clouds of wodge-ale, the speeches began. Maple paid no attention to the Master Carver waffling on about the unprecedented quality of tilder sausage and the prosperity of the Timberyards, but she began to listen when an old grandfather from one of the villages silenced him and began his own speech. He told a tale of difficulty and terror, of trials and hardship, of woodtroll-devouring trees and lost comrades. Of journeying and searching, of trading and bartering, of discovery and settling. It had been twenty years he said since the first woodtroll tribe had stumbled upon the Free Glades. There had been woodtrolls here already, but they had no knowledge of the ways of the Deepwoods and no woodsman's instinct. They had arrived the night before Wodgiss and stayed to celebrate with their brethren. They had been welcomed and given work, filling a niche that had been hitherto unfilled. And so the Timberyards were founded. Twenty years had seen much change and much growth. Now, the Free Glades were surrounded by numerous woodtroll villages, all supplying the great Timberyards. So much had changed for their community over those years. No longer did they wander aimlessly through the Deepwoods, sticking fearfully to the trodden paths, lest the bloodoak catch them. Now, they were prosperous and well fed. Twenty years and twenties more to go in their new home. Eventually the speeches ceased and the great parade began. Maple was too tired to watch, but she managed to cheer for the Queen of the Parade as she passed by. When the festivities were complete, the adults sat around the fires sharing tales, but Maple decided to go to bed. As she drifted off, Maple wondered what would happen before the next great Wodgiss feast. Perhaps the Free Glades would become a city to rival Undertown, perhaps sky-flight would turn topsy-turvy, who knew.... ''The Mistrider'' by Alex Flather – Highly commended Hob shifted gently in the saddle, his fingers playing deftly with the Gladehawk’s sail ropes as he looped her towards a large copperwood tree. The skycraft bucked and danced in the eddying Deepwoods winds, kept under control by her skilled pilot. “Gently girl, gently...” he muttered to his skycraft as they drifted downwards, spiralling around the treetop. He gripped the sail-ropes tightly, praying under his breath to Earth and Sky that he would get a glimpse of his quarry after so long... Hob Thubbit was a fourthling Librarian Knight, on the second month of his treatise-voyage in the Deepwoods, accompanied only by his skycraft, the Gladehawk. His voyage so far had not yielded any results, but he refused to be disheartened - and moments before he had spotted something in the branches of the copperwood which might change his fortunes. “I thought I saw...” he whispered, before letting out a whoop of triumph. There! Deep scratches in the red bark on a branch, in a wide, distinctive, pattern. And another set, a few branches lower still. Hob looked over to the next copperwood along, spotting another set of ragged gouges. Trembling, he let go of the nether-sail rope and patted the satchel at his side, which had his treatise-notebook - Observations of the Giant Tree Fromp. Finally, some luck at last. His green eyes shone with delight, noting how fresh the claw marks where. A giant tree fromp must be nearby - his first sighting! He set his broad shoulders and fixed himself in the saddle, gripping the Gladehawk’s ropes and flight-levers, before hauling backwards to take the polished craft back to the sky. He tracked the direction of the giant fromp’s travel through the forest from the air, noting shattered branches and disturbed nests of quarms and razorflits as he went. After a few minutes’ flight Hob curved round a huge ironwood tree, and immediately pulled the Gladehawk to an unsteady halt, speechless. There was a small clearing in the Deepwoods below, and sitting within it... A skyship. A magnificent ruin, shattered over a rocky outcrop, overgrown with all manner of colourful Deepwoods flora. Around it tall gladegrass waved lazily in the breeze, and Hob could see emerald mossbirds twittering around the prow of the wrecked galleon. He adjusted a sail, swooping down for a closer look, open-mouthed, before landing on the outskirts of the clearing. He checked for predators and dangerous plants - the Deepwoods was never safe - and, satisfied, tied up the Gladehawk and approached the great wreck on foot. It loomed above him like a decaying mountain. All thoughts of giant tree fromps were pushed from his mind at the sight. He whipped out his treatise-notebook and turned to a fresh page, sketching the structure of the skyship with an ironwood pencil. He saw the mast had shattered, lying some distance away, with its cracked caternest covered in yellow moss and home to what looked like oakbats. The rest of the ship was largely intact; Hob could even pick out its name on the side on a cracked plaque - the Mistrider. He could tell she had once been a sleek, powerful vessel - perhaps even a storm-chaser - and he felt a pang of sadness that this legend from the First Age of Flight had come to such an end. Hob looked back at the tiny Gladehawk, which was bobbing up and down where it was tied up, and shook his head at what had been lost with the onslaught of stone-sickness. Skycraft, however beautiful, could not hope to match the mighty skyships of the past. He continued, reaching the aftcastle, before climbing the cracked superstructure, quickly reaching the overgrown flight-deck. Multi-legged insects scattered under his hands as he hauled himself onto the deck, breathing heavily. He stopped short. The flight-deck was just as he had seen in treatises from the Great Storm Chamber Library in Undertown. Delicately carved luftwood flight levers, either side of a broken helm... which had a skeleton slumped over it, clutching a lever in one outstretched hand. A huge splinter, probably from the mast, had gone through its ribcage, pinning it to the centre of the skyship’s wheel. Hob approached the bleached skeleton, which was dressed in threadbare, rotting finery - including a moth-eaten bicorn hat. From the outfit he guessed that whomever the captain of the Mistrider had been, they had been a sky pirate, one of the noble outlaws from the stories he had loved as a child. The captain had gone down with his vessel; Hob bowed his head in respect, before surveying the rest of the skyship from his vantage point. His eyes were drawn to the flight rock cage - there was no flight rock to be seen, and he guessed this vessel had been brought down by stone-sickness some years ago, like so many of her fellow skyships. Instead, the cage was stuffed with branches and leaves and, as Hob looked on, he saw something move and shift within. A deep, booming call echoed around the clearing, and Hob started and stepped back, his hand moving to the small crossbow hooked onto his flight suit. A large furred head emerged from the tangle of branches within the rock cage, and Hob couldn’t help but shout with joy. A giant tree fromp stared at him from its nest within the heart of the Mistrider, its enormous proboscis waving lazily as it considered, and dismissed, the Librarian Knight staring at it with disbelief from the aftcastle. It ambled out onto the cracked deck of the ship, stretching out and luxuriating in the afternoon sun, its yellow eyes closed. As Hob looked on, it made snuffling noises and promptly fell asleep. Hob, not taking his eyes off of the sleeping fromp, sat down heavily next to the former captain, pulling out his treatise-notebook. His journey - like that of the Mistrider - was at last at an end. ''The Bloodoak Grove by Emily Morley – highly commended “I’m a wigwig and I’m going to get you! Rarr!” '“Oh yeah? Well, I’m a sky pirate captain – Captain Hamstring! I’ll just chop you down with my sword.” “Nu-uh, Hamstring. A sky pirate can’t defeat a pack of wigwigs! Even Captain Twig had to hide up a tree. Even then, he only made it 'cus of the banderbear...” “Now then, Marble, what’ve you been up to?” “Grandpa Gristle, tell Ham you can’t fight off a wigwig with a sword! Tell him about Captain Twig!” “I know that story about Captain Twig already, I’ve heard it lots of times before. I want to hear a new one!” “You know plenty of stories about sky pirates, don’t you Grandpa?” “A new one, ay? Well, come along inside, and I’ll see what I can recall...” The three slaughterers entered the nearby hut. Gristle stoked the hearth fire and put on a fresh lullabee log, which immediately began to sing out its sweet tune. “Alright then,” Gristle proclaimed, and sat down in his worn armchair, “Marble, Hamstring - have I ever told you the one about the bloodoak grove?” The two children breathed in sharply and shook their heads. They made themselves comfortable on the rug, at Gristle’s feet, and silently stared up at him, waiting for the tale to begin. “It was a while back when this happened, before your dad was born. Your Great Aunt Sinew, Captain Twig and I were close, as you know. We went on a lot of adventures together. He was a brave man, who helped wherever was needed. The moment he heard a young hammelhorn had gone missing, he was set on getting to the bottom of it. He headed to the pen, took a look at the distressed mother and some markings on the ground, showing signs of a struggle, and he turned to me and said, 'I know what’s happened'. Always had a keen mind, Twig did. His intuition was sharp as a rotsucker's toenail. He crouched down and said, ‘See these markings on the ground? The calf tried to put up a fight, mum too, but something got a strong hold of it, and dragged it away. Looks like it was a tarry vine. A bloodoak nearby has gone unchecked, and turned its attention to the camp. We’d best deal with it before it takes anymore lives.' We all knew that Twig had close-up experience with bloodoaks. He’d been snatched by a tarry vine himself, and dragged towards the gaping, putrid mouth of the carnivorous tree. Thanks to the insight of Ma-Tatum, sky preserve her soul, he was saved. She’d gifted him one of our hammelhorn waistcoats. Even those murderous trees are sensitive to the bristles of a hammelhorn skin, brushed the wrong way. It spat him right out. The best way to deal with this problem was to seek assistance from the woodtrolls. Not only are they skilled lumberjacks, but they’re some of the few creatures brave enough to take on a bloodoak. We sent word to a nearby village, asking for their help, but Twig insisted that we also took a look for ourselves. We kept an eye out for tarry vines, careful not to step into their snare, and find ourselves whipped head-over-heels and dragged away to be lunch... Eventually, we came to a clearing, and there it was. We noticed the stench first, and then, as we listened, the sound of gurgling and crunching. I turned to Twig and his face was pale. I beckoned to him to turn back to camp, but he put an arm out to stop me. 'Do you hear that?' he asked. I listened, but all I could hear was the slurping of the bloodoak. Twig pointed over to it, and I noticed then that it was perfectly still; not making any movements, not making any sounds. I looked beyond it, into the gloom. To my horror, I could see more tarry vines, not stretching from the monstrous tree that grew before us, but from others in the shadows beyond. We had discovered a bloodoak grove. We stepped backwards and retreated from the clearing, cautious not to attract the attention of the vines. We needed to act quickly, before another hammelhorn was snatched – or worse! The woodtrolls arrived before long, the gleam of their sharpened axes matching the one of eagerness and excitement in their eyes. This was like a hunt, for them. At Twig's insistence, we were also kitted out in hammelhorn waistcoats, as an extra precaution. We stealthily approached the grove together, and, although it wasn’t an easy or safe job, we cut down every one of them, and burnt their stumps to ashes, in the hopes that none would grow back. No doubt it won’t be the last we see of them, but we had done what we could. Not seen any sign of them since, mind you. We did a great deal with the next sky ship of Leaguesmen who stopped by. They couldn’t believe the amount of bloodoak timber we had. Bought the lot, they did, but not before Twig gave them a good haggle! He was a great man. Still is, I’m sure, wherever open sky has taken him...” Gristle peered down at the youngsters, their eyes drooping. “Grandpa,” Marble muttered, stifling a yawn, “tell us another one?” The lullabee logs on the hearth fire had burned down to a soft glow, their song still humming gently. “Come now, you two,” Gristle's joints creaked as he got out of his chair, “time for bed. No doubt you’d have me telling you tales of Captain Twig 'til the sun sets, but you won’t be able to keep your heads up much longer. Anyhow, before you know it, it’ll be you two off having adventures of your own, I’m sure...” ''The Journey to Undertown by Milicule the Nightwaif – Highly commended These were the Nightwoods. A dark and mysterious place filled with dense undergrowth, sharp thorns, and spiky brambles. But none of these were as dangerous as the inhabitants of the Nightwoods. Nightwaifs, Flitterwaifs, Copperwaifs, and many more. They fed on the emotions of those who strayed into these treacherous lands, and then they fed on their flesh. But the danger was not just for the unfortunate few who stumble into the Nightwoods, it was very common for waifs to feed upon other waifs, who had grown too weak or old. Take me for instance, my name is Milicule, a Nightwaif, my long delicate ears stretched out to hear the thoughts of my Flitterwaif pursuers. Their minds were a mess, screaming for the taste of my flesh. But my nimble legs were fast enough to outrun them and their gnashing jaws. For now. Soon I will be too old, too slow to outrun my would-be predators, I had began to make the dangerous journey, through the terrifying Deepwoods, through the enchanting Twilight woods where many a mind may wander and through the desolate Mire, to the legendary Undertown, where the streets were allegedly paved with gold. But for now my one purpose was to escape these Flitterwaifs, I turned left, right. Desperately trying to escape these cannibalistic creatures. Behind me I heard an animal scream of rage and pain, I looked behind me to see one of the Flitterwaifs, sprawled on the ground, a deep gash on its wing. I watched as the rest of the group forgot me and turned onto their fellow waif, and began to feast on it. I turned my head forward and set off again at a slower pace towards the general direction of the deepwoods. After many days of travelling the forest of brambles began to thin, until I finally emerge into a clearing. Behind me lay the Nightwoods, a dark and dismal place, full of vampire-like creatures. In front of me lay the Deepwoods, the sound of an almost infinite amount of minds working resonated through my mind as I bent my ears in that direction. I stepped forward, into the light, and the noise of the minds enveloped me. As I walked onward, it seems as though the Deepwoods went on forever. Everything seemed peaceful, until suddenly my ears alerted me to the presence of a creature that I had never seen before. I searched its simple brain and identified it as a Hoverworm. My ears searched for the levers that made its decisions. Crash! The hideous creature barged out of the bushes and prepared to strike me with it toothless mandibles, filled with venom. Suddenly it stopped,as my mind slowly bent it to my will. The Hoverworm twitched until suddenly it stopped and became completely docile. Never before had I experienced such power, the ability to manipulate minds was almost useless in the Nightwoods, a place where all other creatures could do the same. Almost in a trance I jumped onto the previously dangerous creature’s back. I had made my first companion, granted an unwilling one but it was a start. The hoverworm made travel a lot easier. With the small orifices along it underbelly it could jet itself up into the air, this made it much harder for other potential predators to reach me. Days and nights of flying passed as my companion and I hovered beneath the canopy of the vast Deepwoods. Until, suddenly I heard the Twilight Woods. I had only heard of this place in the minds of a select amount of Deepwoods dwellers. A place where your mind turned to fog and drifted away. I had suspected the worst, but this was somehow even more terrifying. The Hoverworm stopped, and refused to go onward. I dismounted. Already, my mind began to wander, but I forced myself onward, my ears flicked forward, only to find the minds of the poor, lost souls of those who had strayed too far into this realm of dim yellow light. I had to stay true to my purpose so I continued walking. I began murmuring to myself, so that at least I could have company. Occasionally I passed the half-corpses of previous knights academic, their blank minds were very disconcerting. After a few days I stumbled upon a grey goblin, turned insane. His jaw had been replaced by a mechanical contrivance, and he kept muttering the same thing over and over again; “Cloud Wolf, Cloud Wolf, where are you, oh Quint, where have you gone!” I quickly moved past him. Voices entered my head, begging me to let my mind loose, let all the pain go away. But I remained strong. I don’t know how many days passed while I stumbled through these forests full of golden light. It didn’t seem long, but at the same time it felt like forever. But finally, I made it, I emerged onto The Mire, the final step in my long journey. As I stepped out of the treacherous Twilight Woods and onto the desolate wasteland, that was The Mire, my bare feet squelched under the glistening grey mud. I tuned my ears forward, and far ahead I could make out the many minds of Undertown, I headed in that direction. The sun came up and went down, but I paid little attention as I squelched across the bog. The only thing I ate was slimy Oozefish, the muddy taste was now infused in my mouth. I avoided the many dangers of The Mire by listening in on the surrounding minds, and fleeing any Muglumps, or any other terrifying creatures that lived in this place. But finally, my long journey was rewarded, I reached the gates of undertown and entered. I had no money, but I was sure that a waif like me could easily make a living in this town of opportunity. Little did I know what Undertown had in store for me. Knight Academic – Winning artwork IMG_2701_(1).jpg IMG_2699_(1).jpg IMG_6643_(1).jpg ''Attack of the Great Hoverworm by ''Callum Wells – Highly commended Milena Kirk – Highly commended Category:Blog posts